


Boundaries

by moz17



Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: American Sign Language, Breathplay, M/M, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27280699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moz17/pseuds/moz17
Summary: "[Border is physical, for geography.] He made the sign again, articulating it slowly and clearly. [Boundary has many meanings because there's many kinds of boundaries.]"
Relationships: Mr. Numbers/Mr. Wrench (Fargo)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

They drove through a stark landscape, flat, empty of distinguishing markers. The road itself was the only thing to hold onto for orientation, a thread. Numbers focused on driving, and Wrench watched the landscape passing, unchanging, and he became lulled by the combination of the scenery and the thrumming of the car engine.  
They stopped to eat in a diner that much resembled the land around it, empty, monotone. Numbers checked a map – they still had a long drive ahead of them before they reached home, and a job to complete on the way before this. Wrench followed Numbers' gaze to the old paper map, deep creases in its folds, tears here and there, the shades and lines almost an abstract artwork. He struggled to connect this flimsy piece of paper with the unrelenting terrain they had been journeying along.

[This coffee is terrible]

[Not like there's a big selection of places to choose from for coffee.]

[Not long till we reach the border.] Numbers raised his hand, his thumb drawing an imaginary line as he swept his other arm downward.

[Border?] Wrench held up his left hand, fingers pointed down, thumb out and swept it across the outside of his right forearm. [Or boundary?] He imitated Numbers gesture.

[What's the difference?] A disinterested shake to his final gesture.

Wrench lay his hands on the table, regarding his partner, unimpressed. 

[I'm sorry.] He rubbed his hands over his face and took another sip of the coffee, his mouth turning down at one corner.

Too many people had been dismissive of sign language over the years, simultaneously maintaining it couldn't be capable of conveying a lot and wasn't really a language as such, whilst also never bothering to learn it and being defeated by its speed and complexity when forced to witness it in full flight. His partner knew better than to express such a lazy sentiment. 

[Explain it to me so I understand?] A conciliatory gesture on his part, his movements softer. Numbers' dark eyes held his, focused. He knew he hadn't really meant it, but he had been irritated by it, although he understood the remark had been born of tiredness.

[Border is physical, for geography.] He made the sign again, articulating it slowly and clearly. [Boundary has many meanings because there's many kinds of boundaries.]

[So they're similar but distinct.] Numbers touched his fingertip to his forehead, pulling downwards, striking his fist, thumb turned up against the back of his other hand. 

Wrench confirmed this. [Boundary is for personal boundaries as well.]

[I see.]

Their hands stilled for a bit as they turned their attention to their food and coffee. Then Wrench began again, indicating the map Numbers had been studying. 

[What is a boundary or a border anyway?] He moved his hands lightly.

[What do you mean? It marks off something. Minnesota has a border. Boundaries tell you what contains something, they tell you what is allowed or not, what is considered part of it.]

[But they're not fixed.] Wrenched flicked his thumb out from under his chin before touching his balled hands on top of one another, alternating.

[Of course they're fixed, they're on the map. A border or a boundary can't just change. We have to be able to rely on the information so we know where we're going.]

[But all borders are created. They don't exist naturally, unless it's the sea or a mountain.]

[OK.] Numbers hands indicated that he was really saying [And? So?] He considered his coffee again, sighing as he resigned himself to drinking it. [We need borders and boundaries.] He resumed. [Not in a nationalist sense.] He signed the word in a derisory manner. [But a boundary is where something begins to exist, so that's important.]

[Yes, but they can change. Kosovo has a border now because it's a country now.]

[Why are we talking about Kosovo? Do you want to talk about Kosovo?] 

[Because of its boundaries! They need to move, to change. If they were always the same, nothing would change. They're there to be crossed.]

[Not always. They're also to keep out others, to be respected.]

[But what about us?] Wrench moved his fingertips to the right side of his and then to the left side, even this simple gesture tinged with an intimacy he was careful not to express in front of others. Not due to any misplaced shame but out of self-preservation for them both. 

Wrench could never quite pinpoint the moment their relationship had changed to become more and he wondered if Numbers could either. It was something that had happened and they never seemed to feel the need to discuss it, which was good in one sense as it had been so natural that the shift had almost been imperceptible, and so was there really a need to talk about it? On the other hand, he sometimes wondered if they needed to have more of such conversations, curious as to what might develop from them. Even after all these years, he always had the wish to go deeper with his partner.

[If we hadn't changed our boundaries, we wouldn't be what we are now.] 

Numbers accepted this but qualified it. [Some boundaries can change. Others don't.]

[Some boundaries, people don't even notice though.]

[Such as?]

[Every time we walk into a gas station or shop, and we're on someone's property, it doesn't bother you to take out others even though you're in someone else's space.] 

Numbers shrugged, unconcerned. 

[OK. How about we say some boundaries are porous? They're movable.] 

[They're also a limit.]

[How?] Numbers stirred more sugar into his coffee in a bid to make it palatable. 

[Well, if a boundary is the start, where something begins, then it can also be the furthest point away, the limit you can go to, the edge.]

[That doesn't sound comfortable.] Numbers winced again, the coffee now over-sweet as well as being terrible. [I suppose there's one good thing. At least with you, we'll never run out of things to discuss.]  
-

Wrench noticed how Numbers would watch him if he was getting dressed or undressed, it took him a while to work out that he was focusing on his belt. One evening, he addressed this – he tended to address things directly, instantly signing what came into his head. It was just how he was – he didn't see a reason to not express something, particularly when usually no-one around them could understand their language. Why would he check himself in such a manner around Numbers? It didn't make sense. Anyway, it would have been quite difficult to conceal something from his partner, even if he wished to. The nature of their language meant they were intimately familiar with the other's facial expressions, the smallest flick or turn telling them a huge amount about their reactions, their state of mind, their feelings. He sometimes thought he knew Numbers' face better than his own. Certain signs were always accompanied by the same expression or shift of his body and he now found it hard to consider the sign in isolation, without his partner's manner colouring it. He had entwined himself fully with this language for him.  
Sometimes, though, he did do it on purpose, intentionally putting questions or statements to his partner, just to see how he would react. 

[Why do you like my belt so much?] Wrench indicated the item, purposefully angling his hips forward.

[What?] The expected raising of the corner of his mouth, the creases at his left eye firming up as he squinted. 

Wrench repeated the gesture, even more pronounced this time, his meaning unmistakable. [What is it about my belt? Do you want me to hit you with it?]

[What?! No!] The expected head shake, eye roll, and turning away from him. 

But he followed him doggedly, coming over to him and standing in front of him so they could communicate. There was a distinctly unexpected flush to his partner's cheeks. He still sometimes had this reaction to sexual matters, even after all this time. Numbers ascribed certain meanings and implications to different acts or predilections in a way which was alien to Wrench. He did his best to comprehend this and not exacerbate it, whilst also slowly coaxing him around to shedding a few of these notions. His attitude to sex was uncomplicated – it was an intense experience and Wrench revelled in the physicality of it, drinking in the heat caused by the closeness of their bodies, and he didn't care to keep any control over his expressions or enthusiasm, and enjoyed tasting his partner, inhaling his scents, palping his flesh, needing to feel the thereness and solidness of him. This was sometimes overwhelming for his partner, and since Wrench didn't know how to hide the satisfaction he took in these acts, he did grant him the requisite space whilst also attempting to entice him into being more comfortable with these acts by demonstrating on his own body how enjoyable they could be. The first time Wrench had sat, splayed in a chair, pleasuring himself, putting on a show for his partner, he could tell he was shocked, particularly when his free hand had begun playing around his own hole – however, if he had believed his partner was truly uncomfortable with any of this, he would have ceased his attempts instantly. Rather, he was convinced that Numbers was worried about losing control of himself in the moment. He lived in such extremes, even in a job and lifestyle most would consider extreme; he was always one step away from ricocheting to one opposite or another. Wrench wasn't like this – he was able to meet intensity and extremes and absorb them, operating on a consistent line. This was not to say he did not get agitated or worked up, but in contrast to his partner, he did not experience this as a threat to his self. He saw that Numbers wanted to exert control over himself at all times, frightened in some way by the irrational part of himself that would take over, making him volatile in his actions and decisions. It was an upward spiral, feeding itself. 

[OK, you don't want me to hit you with it. What then?]

[I'm not doing this.] He made to turn away. 

His signing was sharp, urgent. [What's the problem? I won't use the information against you. Do you think I would? Would you do that to me?]

[No.] His hands fell, resigned. He tapped his finger to his neck. Wrench looked at him in wonder, and to be sure, took his balled fists, pedalled them in little circles, before then pulling them away from one another. His partner lowered his head, nodding, unable to look at him. Wrench reached out and tilted his head up, meeting some resistance.

[We can do that.] He moved his hand to his back, rubbing circles there, trying to get his clenched muscles to loosen, to get his body to come down off of high-alert. 

Numbers put the fingers of his right hand to his mouth before removing them, lowering his outstretched palm.

[No.] Wrench contradicted him vehemently, breaking off his ministrations. [It isn't bad, you're not bad for wanting it.] He tried to change his expression, making his signs softer. [I want to see you like that.]

[How could you?] 

[Because it'd be hot. And you want to do it, which is hot, too.]

He saw that Numbers had really reached the edge of his limits in talking about this, and so he retreated, allowing him some space. 

-

Wrench had time and he worked over the issue while he lay in bed early in the morning, awake before his partner, when they drove or while they made their way through empty forests, disposing of the remnants from another job. Numbers had placed some kind of interpretation on his desire, labelling it as deviant, reflecting on his own character in some disgusting way. Wrench wasn't disgusted, he was truly aroused by it and excited to see where engaging in this might bring them. He sought to approach it step by step, knowing however his plans would be instantly transparent to Numbers.

One evening, they sat in their car, parked in a secluded place, waiting to meet a contact. Wrench extended his arm and made to stroke his fingertips down his partner's neck. The reaction was instant, and Wrench had to block his partner's blow before it connected with his face. They both began signing at once, in a rush of adrenaline and emotion, using variations of [what the fuck]. They stopped then, breathing heavily, glaring at one another. 

[Fuck this.] Wrench signed, turning his face away and looking out the window. 

They met their contact and drove back to their motel. Wrench's thoughts were dark. He turned off the engine but before he could get out of the car, he felt Numbers' hand resting on his thigh. He shook him off, his mood poisoned. 

[Please.] Numbers used his sign name, something he only did when he was either being conciliatory or when he was in a softer mood. [You startled me. I thought you were mocking me.]

Wrench had any number of sarcastic retorts to this but tempting as it was to give into them, he didn't sign anything. He was still pissed off and wanted Numbers to do some more work on this occasion. 

[Did I hurt you?]

[You did.]

Numbers understood what he meant by this, and his eyes were dull in the dark evening. 

[I didn't know what you were going to do.]

[I just wanted to touch your neck. If you're interested in having my damn belt around it I wanted to start out slowly.]

[That's all?]

Wrench nodded, wanting to sign of course that was all, what else would he do? He wouldn't do anything more rough or physical without discussing it first, knowing how volatile Numbers could be in his reactions. He had simply want to stroke his fingertips along his neck and see how it felt, see how his partner reacted. He had never consciously touched his partner's neck in such a manner and he wanted to focus on it if this was an avenue they were going to play with. 

Numbers reached out to place his hand on his partner's thigh again and this time Wrench accepted it, covering his hand with his own. His anger had ebbed away, and now he was tired.  
Wrench lay on the bed in their motel room, the TV flickering. He rated their motel rooms on whether the TVs had enough channels and decent subtitles. Numbers never seemed to be as interested in television as he was – Wrench needed the stimulation, the movement and activity of fast images and colours. Numbers instead seemed to become agitated from too much exposure to the screen. He read often, and Wrench always enjoyed the picture presented to him of his partner focused on a book, his eyes turned downward and fringed by his lashes as he read, moving slowly over the words. The solace this gave to him was evident, as was its necessity for him – he needed these moments of immersion in another world without having to be on alert to his surroundings, defensive, ready to act in an instant. Wrench liked to consider that his own presence during these periods enabled his partner to allow himself this, that he could trust him to look out for him in case something did happen. 

Numbers saw him watching him. He raised his eyes.

[You're not even looking at the TV.]

[And?]

[Did you want something?] 

[I didn't want to disturb you. I just like how you look when you're reading.] 

His partner smiled at him, tiredly, but genuinely. 

Wrench took his thumb, pressed it to his temple before bringing it down to touch on his other thumb. [Do you remember, when we were kids?]

[What part of it? There was a lot.] 

[Being beaten up.]

[Why do you want to think about that?] Numbers looked even more tired, pained now too. 

[If someone got too close, you were done for.] He turned off the television, looking carefully at Numbers.

[Well, at least we developed good reflexes out of it.] The book lay forgotten in his lap, and the pages moved, losing the place where he had been reading. 

[They always enjoyed going for my ears. As if punching me there was going to make me more deaf or something. But I knew what they meant by it.] 

[I remember. I fucking punched them in the ears a few times in return.] 

It was not usual for them to discuss their childhood in such a direct manner; they had a shorthand for it, if something reminded then of a particular experience, or they had a way of communicating this with just a look. They had been through it and they had survived it; but survival was a funny thing, and remade you in unexpected ways. They had survived and Wrench sometimes wondered if this was what enabled them to do the work they did – they had survived before and did not have the same fear as others.  
Numbers remained still but Wrench could sense the energy vibrating in him, the respite given to him by his reading slipping away. He wanted to sign something and Wrench waited, seeing his partner was gathering himself to do so.

[If they got me by the neck, it was always the worst. They would do the typical things, shove my head in the toilet bowl so I couldn't breathe. But it also meant they were behind me, they could shove me against the wall. If someone gets you by the neck, that's it, game over.] He held up his hand and slid it across the back of his other hand. [So why do I want you to restrain me like that? It can only be wrong. Why would I want to re-enact such memories?]

Wrench rose from the bed and approached him, all the while vehemently signing [no], bringing his first two fingers against his thumb as if he was clapping with these digits. He kneeled on the carpet in front of his partner, looking up at him, holding his eye contact, unwavering. 

[It's not the same thing.] 

[But how do I know that? How do I keep those things separate? How little respect do I have for myself if that's what I want to do?] 

[It's not the same thing.] He repeated. 

[How?] He signed, exasperated, but also pleading, as if he hoped his partner could give him an answer that would help him to truly believe this. 

[Because it will be with me, and it'll be me doing it with you.]

[That simple, yeah?]

[Yeah, that simple.]

Their hands stilled. Wrench placed his palms on his partner's thighs, squeezing, rubbing lightly. 

[What scares you the most?]

Wrench did not need much time to consider before he responded.

[Going blind. Losing a hand. Losing you. Although I think they are the same somehow.]

Numbers could barely look at him as he signed his response. He held up a balled fist and tapped it on the back of his upright index finger. [Mine is that one day I'll find out this is all a lie.]

[Us?] 

[That you'll be so close to me and then that'll be the moment when I'm taken out. And it'll be the greatest joke the universe could play on me.]

Wrench swallowed – he wasn't angry at his partner; he could understand this suspicious nature, and yet it left him with a dull heaviness in his chest that this was how he felt at heart. 

[But that's why it is attractive for you, that's part of why you want my belt around your neck. Because I won't kill you. I could but I won't, and I never would.]

[This isn't a normal thing to want.]

[You've become very unprecise in your signing recently. First borders and boundaries, now the difference between normal and usual. What is the point of all this reading if it isn't helping your vocabulary?] He didn't wait for his partner's response. [You use 'normal' when you mean 'usual'. It isn't so 'usual' but just because something isn't 'usual' doesn't mean it isn't normal. There aren't so many deaf folks in the world, so does that mean I'm not normal?]

[You aren't goddamn normal but it's not for that reason.]

Wrench smiled. [You're the one with me.]

He smiled weakly in return. [Yeah, I am. Luckily.]

[My knees are killing me. Can we move to bed please?] 

Numbers helped him to his feet, and they undressed quickly; before they lay down to try and sleep, Wrench turned to his partner one last time.

[You do get it doesn't have to define us or you? It's just one thing. Just something we might do sometimes. It isn't all you are or all we are.]

[I know. But I need to learn to accept that.] 

[I'll remind you.]


	2. Chapter 2

They finally got home and although they didn't get to spend much time there, it still unmistakably felt like their home. Wrench was the one who insisted on calling it [home], bringing his fingertips and thumb together, touching it against his mouth, moving his fingers in the direction of his ear before touching his cheek again. Numbers could never accept that they deserved something that could be denoted with such a lovely sign; and on the rare occasions he allowed himself to slip and make this sign, the fear forced its way into his mind that it would be taken away from them. Their home wasn't private in the way the homes of others were, their home was known to their employer and they were duty-bound not to complain about unexpected visits or unknown figures showing up at their door. The unarticulated threat also hung over them that, at the whim of their employer, they could be told to vacate this home at any time and they would not be able to protest or refuse. 

Wrench was the one who called it [home] and yet it was just an apartment with mould on the bathroom walls that Numbers periodically tackled whenever they returned from a job. He always nearly managed to erase it, but not fully and this would then tinge his mood with a certain grimness. Still, it was an improvement on what they had had as children, this was a space they only needed to share with each other, lending it a semblance of privacy and autonomy. Wrench liked to exercise this sense of autonomy by adding decorations to their home. Often he would pick up some keepsake from their journeys, placing them on a shelf or on their bedside table. Often he would not even tell Numbers he had picked up some such item and so he would come upon the latest acquisition unexpectedly. Usually these items were plucked from the landscape, a smooth stone, a bird's feather, a twig or small branch, with or without leaves. 

He asked Wrench every time, touching his fingers to his forehead before pulling his hand down, folding in his fingers and extending his thumb and pinkie: [why?]. 

And Wrench would reply by placing his hand on his chest, bringing his index finger and thumb together: [I like it.] 

Numbers would repeat his gesture: [Why?]

[How it feels.] 

He would wait until he thought Wrench wasn't looking and would pick up the various items in his hands, concentrating on the weight of the stone, how its surface felt, the coolness of it in his hand, or he would examine the shiny colours of the feather, turning it this way and that in the light, he would feel the knottiness of the twig's bark under his fingertips and sometimes he thought he understood what it was that appealed to his partner. 

Sometimes the keepsakes Wrench brought back were not taken from nature but were sneaked from gas stations or the various shops they paused at along the way. Numbers had long given up on either trying to prevent him from doing so or from even attempting to notice when he did it because he could not. For someone so conspicuous by their height and attire, he could become a ghost when he wished to. Numbers was more bewildered by these items than the ones taken from nature; they were always so incredibly tacky and meaningless, little gaudy pieces of plastic, a wind-up novelty or things covered with googly eyes. 

Numbers had expressed his opinion of these knick-knacks once and received the reply: [That's the point.] 

Numbers half-understood this and although it meant nothing to him, and though they did not really celebrate any holidays or mark birthdays (not for want of trying and enthusiasm on Wrench's part), sometimes he would surprise his partner by extracting some hideous bright souvenir from his pocket that he had appropriated for him. Though he got little out of it, it was worth it every time to see the expression on Wrench's face, the expressiveness his signing would take on in thanking him, how we would seek out a proper place for this latest gift in their home once they returned. 

Numbers resisted any urge or desire to display ornaments or possessions around their [home]. The less there was available and on view, the less that could be used against them, the less that could be taken away. Even his collection of battered paperbacks accumulated over the course of countless jobs seemed a weakness to him, the neatly lined up spines a reproach.  
Though Wrench was the one who called their apartment [home], it was also clear he did not envision them staying there for the rest of their lives. Sometimes Numbers came across photos or pictures he would tear out of old magazines he found abandoned in the motels they used. Pure fantasy, Numbers would grumble to himself as he looked at the creased pictures of wild pink and orange sunsets in far off places. These flimsy, glossy pages seemed like a bad joke when compared with what was outside of their apartment window. Wrench had previously tacked some of these pages up around their [home] but had abandoned it after several occasions of a frustrated and furious Numbers tearing them down and balling them up. He was not frustrated with his partner, or angry at him really, but he also could not express or admit that he himself was frustrated or angry because that would lead to uncomfortable admissions about their situation. He didn't want to bring Wrench down, he didn't want to take these little fantasies from him, and yet such earnest and artless dreams somehow short-circuited his patience and filled him with helpless irritation. 

[Why do you want to look at these photos?} He had queried on one occasion. 

[Why wouldn't I? Other people go on holidays or move to another country.]

[Yeah, other people.]

Wrench shrugged lightly, unaffected by his partner's words; he had a terrible habit of being able to bend with the buffets and storms of Numbers' moods. 

[Why all these places anyway?] He gestured at the exotic beaches and other landscapes – Mexico, Jamaica, Chile. 

[They're warm.] He could tell by Wrench's signing that he was being playful in his answer. [I want to be able to go around with very little clothes on.]

[Christ.] 

They were [home] now, for how long, remained to be seen. The first night's sleep when they returned [home] after a job was always wonderful – Numbers would be so exhausted that he would conk out moments after taking to their bed, falling into a deep, heavy slumber, nothing would tear him from it, a luxury he could rarely allow himself.  
He swam up slowly to consciousness, waking naturally, not jolting himself awake as was his habit, on the defensive. Winter sun came in through the curtain, lighting the sleeping form of his partner. He found himself comparing their skin tones, how he was much paler, black hair against white skin sharp in its contrast, whereas Wrench seemed to have a warmer tinge to not only his skin, but his hair and eyes too, shades of amber, gold, russet, bright and deep hues. He shifted, waking up himself, blearily opening his eyes before snuggling back down into his pillow again. 

[Breakfast?} 

[Not yet.] Came the reply. He noted how his partner held his hand up still as if wanting to continue with something else and was unsure.

[And?] 

[And.] Wrench took both his hands, made the peace sign with them, before dipping these fingers, swirling them upward in a half circle. [May I...?] He tapped his neck. 

Numbers was still close enough to sleep, he felt rested and warm, and so he nodded. Wrench double-checked: [You sure?] and he nodded again, smiling a bit this time. He was not sure what he expected, but he had not been prepared for intense and extended scrutiny from his partner, fixating on this one part of him. He had vaguely imagined Wrench meant to kiss his neck or stroke it and he would be done with it. This was much slower. In spite of himself, he felt himself beginning to tense up, his reaction to the unknown predictable, but also sensible for other contexts. It was learning to separate these that remained a challenge for him. He could not say that he was jealous, or envious, exactly, of his partner's attitude to sex; his way of simply being in the moment of sex, of having a body that seemed capable of being attuned to its sexual desires and drives, of holding that sexuality easily and not having it impact on the other aspects of his life but also not stamping it down in order to achieve this; it was powerful to witness but somewhat alien to Numbers and he did not know how to access such a way of being fully. 

Numbers liked sex, he liked it a lot, that was not what caused him problems. However, it was easier when sex remained something physical, pure sensation, rising to a brisk crescendo and then stopping. Sex was often far better at shutting his thoughts off than intoxicating substances and served him as a better escape than magazine pictures of far-off lands. But sex was never so simple for him, for them. He thought too much during sex, he would find himself thinking about who he was and who his partner was, and why they were and how they were and all of a sudden he would nearly be on the verge of a panic attack. Seeing Wrench's serenely unbothered face would not help and he would begin to try and aggressively fuck his way out of this existential fright, needing to stop the sex from being a mirror held up to him. He was smaller than Wrench, sure, but he was also strong, and it was on these occasions that he would take control, getting ready to fuck Wesley, watching for how his partner's head would roll back, eyes closing, everything else forgotten, everything reduced down the wild rhythm of his thrusts, urging them both on to finish quickly. 

Whilst these sensations and thoughts criss-crossed Numbers' mind, Wrench had shuffled closer and dipping his head, ghosted his lips over his neck, his lips not quite touching the skin, his breath greenhouse hot on him. He raised his head again, gazing intently at him, before taking his hand and gently raking his fingernails down the soft flesh of his neck, stopping just at his collarbone. He grasped the bedclothes, instinct telling him to hit out at Wesley, but another part of him just about managing to stop himself from doing so. Silently, he urged his partner to not notice this, to keep going; he needed to become desensitised to this, he needed to push through whatever irrational reactions threatened to overcome him. But his partner was too perceptive, had known him too long, and unlike Numbers, was not willing to ignore it and play along. He ceased his ministrations, and Numbers saw how hard his cock was, and realised how hard he was himself, heat pulsing in his crotch. 

[You don't have to stop.] Numbers signed.

[But I want to.] 

[Why won't you do this at MY pace?] 

[I am.] 

Grady made a dismissive gesture, an attempt at baring his teeth, but there was no power in it and they both knew it. 

-

The snow fell thickly, quietly, a constant flurry of white outside their window. The mornings were dark, as were the evenings, and during the shorter periods of daylight, Numbers began to understand Wrench's desire to get away to somewhere generically exotic. They waited for a call, for the next occasion their employer would need them. It did not come and another day would come to a close with no communication. They were not necessarily complaining, but the longer this continued for, the more the certainty increased that they would soon be put to work again as this state could not keep on indefinitely. 

Grady woke early, bundled himself into a thick pullover, and furnishing himself with a coffee, sat in what was unofficially accepted as his armchair, intermittently reading and looking out at the continuing snow. His feelings about snow and the climate where they lived would never settle; some days, snow and storms made him apprehensive, the snow would cover them, cover their tracks, and they would not be able to find their way out of it. Other days, he welcomed the sense of being enclosed in the snow because he could pretend no one would ever come find them. 

Wesley appeared in the doorway, naked, his eyes sleep-soft still.

[How are you not freezing?]

[Of course, I'm freezing but I planned to get us both into the shower under the hot water.]

[Christ.]

The shower was not intended to fit two people but this did not matter to them, and the sensation of being enclosed by the snow outside was further heightened by sharing this small steamy space with his partner.  
They emerged, and Grady dressed quickly; he noticed his partner was slower to dress and was hesitating over something in the bathroom. 

[What?] 

Wes looked at him, tilting his head sideways, his fingers signing sinuously. [I was wondering if I could shave you.]

Whatever answer he had been expecting, it had not been that. [What? I don't want to shave off my beard.]

[No, I don't want that either. I think I've forgotten what you ever looked like without it. But it needs to be tidied up, doesn't it?]

Grady understood. [You want to shave my neck.]

Wesley affirmed this, and reaching into the bathroom cabinet, plucked out a straight razor. Grady stared at this, processing the image presented to him, and nodding, he left the bathroom and returned to his armchair, awaiting his partner. 

Wesley padded towards him deliberately, towels over one arm, a bowl in one hand, and the other necessary items in the other. Setting these down, he pulled up a chair beside his partner. 

[At least you put on pants.]

[Only as a concession to you.]

[So considerate.]

[You always have to have the final word.]

[Yes, I do.] 

Grady watched as Wes poured some oil onto his fingers, and rubbed his hands together, warming it. He then turned to his partner and pressed two fingers from each of his hands against his temples for a few moments, holding the position. He examined Wesley's arms, the hard, taut lines of muscle on his forearms. He began to slowly glide his hands down his cheeks, rubbing the oil in in circular motions. He could feel his breath coming quicker already and sought to offset this.

[I told you not to shave my beard.]

[I'm not, I'm moisturising it though anyway.]

[Pointless.]

[Part of the show.] 

Wesley remained unperturbed, focused and clearly enjoying the sensation of stroking his partner's face, the sensation of the oil on his hands. He reached Grady's chin, and continued massaging the oil in around his neckline, down onto his neck. He returned his hands to his chin, and traced his lips with one finger, and Grady sought to suppress a shiver. Wesley turned his attention to the shaving lather, swirling the brush around in the thick, luxurious foam. The blade lay there, cold looking, indifferent. Wesley shifted closer, taking one finger to tilt his chin up, loading up the shaving brush with lather. Numbers felt his breathing continuing to quicken, becoming more shallow, and he couldn't think of anything to say or do to distract from it. Wrench was about to begin applying the lather, when he assessed his partner, and put down the bowl and brush instead. This elicited a curse from Numbers, a jerking forward, which was met by the broad palm of his partner's hand against his chest, pushing him back down, holding him there.

[Just do it already, fuck.] His breathing was wild.

Wrench continued to hold his hand on his partner's rapidly rising and falling chest, breaking the contact only to sign. 

[I don't think that's a good idea. I need your breathing steady otherwise I'm worried you might hit me during this, and that would not end well for either of us.]

Numbers saw the sense in this but could not feel it. He wanted to curse and urge his partner on but instead he tried to focus on the hand on his chest. Wes looked good in this morning light but perhaps he just looked good in every light. Yes, if they were going to put his partner's belt around his neck, it would not be good if panic overpowered him; it almost seemed a contradiction to be concerned about keeping his breathing regular when he wanted to feel Wrench tightening and pulling on a belt wrapped around his neck, yet he did understand it was necessary, it was the difference between a game and between an attack.

[How are you doing?] Wesley asked.

[Better.] Grady answered, meaning it. [Much better.] 

Wesley picked up the brush and lather again, and this time began to apply the thick lather to his neck. Grady reached out a hand to grasp his partner's thigh. Otherwise, he remained perfectly still, trapped; the thought initially made his chest pound, but then he remembered he wasn't in danger, and he found the fear turning into shaky excitement. He saw that Wesley had read this reaction in him, and how turned on he was by it, his pants showing evident signs of this.  
His partner picked up the straight razor, wielding it, and he held it against Grady's throat. He looked at Wesley's steady hand, his steady gaze, content to pause. He understood his partner was waiting for a sign, for whether he should continue or not, and so he affirmed that he should. Wesley began to draw the razor along his neck, using firm, long strokes. He worked steadily, stopping only to clean the blade with water, and to check that Grady was still with him. 

[I need to do it again, I missed some hairs.] 

But instead of taking up the blade once more, he took his palm and rubbed it over his neck, stroking upwards, feeling for stray hairs. Grady felt a lassitude filling his limbs, he was going slack, feeling almost cat-like, basking in the attentions of his partner. Then Wesley let his hand rest on his neck, and he gently, briefly tightened his hold, and then released.  
He managed to lift his right hand and hold it flat and hit his fingertips against his upturned palm. When Wesley did not react, he pinched his fingertips together on both hands before hitting them together. His partner smiled slowly, one hand adjusting his obvious erection. 

[Please.]

[What?]

[You forgot 'please'.]

[Please!] He signed, wanting to smack him, gasping out the word as well. He needed to feel it again because he had not had enough time to process the sensation, all he knew was he wanted it again but he needed to know why or at least identify some kind of reaction or emotion more than desperate need. 

A lazy grin spread over Wesley's face as he instead began to make large circles over his now cleanly shaven Adam's apple. Grady's skin tingled everywhere and his hands grasped for purchase on his partner's thigh. He then bent over him and extended his tongue, lapping at the hollow of his neck, moving in wide, soft circles. He felt a slick bead of precum leaking from his cock; usually he would find such an event somewhat distasteful but now he welcomed the helpless sensation. Wesley pulled away once more, his face flushed, his eyes bright, and he stroked his hand over his partner's neck, before tightening his hold once more, maintaining it for longer. It wasn't that Grady couldn't breathe, he certainly could. It was not a chokehold, it was only a light hold, but there was pressure on his neck and yet his instinct to flee had been completely transformed into a sense of powerlessness that he welcomed. What would it be like to be further out of control, what would he find at those edges, in that state? 

Wesley bent over him and not relaxing his hold on his neck, kissed him. With his mouth on his, and his hand around his neck, Grady felt enveloped by his partner, and he pushed into the touch, wanting more of it, he would beg for it if necessary. 

Wesley broke off the kiss, and one-handed signed: [You like it?]

Grady managed to take one hand and repeatedly told his partner [yes]. 

His partner removed his hand, and Grady protested this, but Wesley was unmoveable. 

[We're going to do more another time. But now, I need to put some aftershave on your neck.]

Grady nearly lunged out of the armchair. 

[Fucking AFTERSHAVE?]

Wesley shoved him back down again. [Yes, you'll need it. And once I've put that on, I'm going to suck your dick. Any complaints?]

It was a delicious combination, having his partner pat his neck with the cool, stinging liquid, before quickly cleaning his hands in the available bowl of water, and then sinking to his knees in front of him, unzipping his pants, and taking his hard cock into the hot warmth of his mouth. He looked down at Wesley's head between his legs, and a kaleidoscope of thoughts filled his mind, about who he was, who they were, and how and why, and this time it made some sense, if only just to him, or perhaps this was what his partner had known all along. He clenched, his hips stuttering forward, swears and declarations falling from his mouth as he came, Wesley's swallowing. Grady lay back, catching his breath, and he watched as his partner raised his head and indecently licked his lips. 

[What the fuck are we doing?] Grady asked, shaking his head, half-laughing.

[What we want.]


	3. Chapter 3

Numbers did not know when violence had become one of his main languages. He thought of violence as a language because it had long ago become the way he processed the world. He had learned it in a similar manner too – if a person is born with a voice, and is able to babble or scream as a child, and then through their socialization, acquires and absorbs the words and accents they encounter around them, this was how he had mastered the language of violence. 

It was an abstract language, rather than a language of words. A person could use violence in order to express themselves or communicate something, whether it be despair, jealousy, or rage. However, he mostly deployed violence in the abstract, a series of numbers computed and the result was the directions he needed to follow. It was a mathematical language rather than one of words. He had to work out the angles and layout of a space, count the players, factor in their position, almost considering it like points on an axis; what equipment and ability did they have, what did he have, factor it in, an equation he had to solve instantly whilst continually readjusting the parameters, feeding in new information as it happened. Others would maintain that planning attacks, or encountering them and surviving them, would require being able to read the opponent as well, to understand their mental state, their motivations; but this was why he had a partner, to compensate for this blind spot.

He remembered little from before he arrived in the home but something told him there had been violence in his life even then; there were no clear memories, just suspicions, sensations, dark feelings. The usual aim and procedure was to remove the child from a violent situation, and perhaps that is even what they believed they were doing, or lied to themselves that this was what they were doing by sending him to the home. Instead there was violence there too, unrelenting, a daily occurrence, unvarying as the days themselves. These were his first remembered experiences with violence and the ones other more typical people could understand. Everyone had the capacity to be violent, he believed, everyone felt the irrational seduction of it, indulged in the fantasy of it but this was only ever for personal reasons; imagined injustice, being the victim, being made the fool, being hurt or violated – everyone reacted violently to such situations, even if only in their head but they still felt it in their body. He, however, had fought back, in every manner possible. He learned a lot by losing and being overpowered. In other places, in other environments, he would not have been encouraged in these violent tendencies but then the wiry man with the half-hidden face and dark skin had entered his life, their lives, and had taught him how to take these violent leanings, remove the emotional response, and hone his ability. He had to remove the emotional aspect because if he could only perpetrate violence as a response to attacks on his own self or a sense of injustice for others then he was limited and of limited use. Life in the home had not been much of a life but it had been something, and life outside of it seemed frightening; this man offered him a way to ignore that he felt frightened and also for him and his partner to remain together, so he had taken it. He made himself useful and allowed the man to take him and mould him.

He did not know when it had become a reflex, when it had become how his mind interpreted the world, when he had begun to encounter people in his daily life and know instantly that he could kill them and how he would do it, not for any reason, just because he could, a grammar drill he ran through in his head.  
That was the period when he began to get tattoos. It was the only time he felt something when exposed to pain. He had learned to relegate his own pain to the realm of the abstract as well, changing the language so that it had nothing to do with him, removing other words and concepts from his vocabulary entirely. When the tattooist dragged his needle across his skin, he would surrender entirely to the sensation, his mind silent, his body tingling, almost overwhelmed at the sensation. That was when he had the dark suspicion that he liked it, and not just liked it, but got off on the sensation of pain and violence. It had come full circle – he had had to rewire himself to understand violence as something banal, with no meaning ascribed to it, and now he took pleasure not in the bestowing of violence but in the receiving of it. 

When he realised this, he had been ashamed in a way he had not been since early childhood, since the onset of puberty. He didn't tell Wesley about it, he couldn't, and that meant then there was something hidden between them. Grady couldn't bring this into their life together, he did not want to bring this to his partner's mind and self and force him to deal with it. Wesley had found a different way to manage the violence of their lives, by compartmentalising it. When he was Wrench, he was nothing else, he successfully shut off Wesley without killing anything about him, whereas Grady did not know where Numbers began or ended and he did not know how to disentangle the two anymore. When he was Wesley, he was nothing else, and it was as if the violence did not touch him and sometimes Grady experienced a sickening twist of jealousy or longing and if he allowed it to continue, it morphed into a kind of disorientation, the world turned on its axis, and if he let this sentiment continue any longer, it could result in sheer panic, which only engendered a hysterical reaction to become violent, against anyone, anything, himself. 

-

They got into their car, and Numbers sat for a moment, resting his hands on the wheel, not yet turning on the engine. They had been summoned and assigned a new target, and given twenty-four hours to get themselves together and on the road. Mulish resistance kicked in him, futile, but his awareness of its futility only contributing to make it stronger rather than diminishing it. He jumped, feeling his partner's hand on his, encouraging him to relax his hold on the steering wheel; Numbers hadn't realised how tightly he had been gripping the instrument. He fell back against the seat, sighing. Wrench's eyes didn't leave him, expectant.

[Take me away.]

They both knew they couldn't do this. 

[Where?] Wrench asked him. 

Numbers made a thumb's up sign with his right hand before dipping it and flicking his fist back up so now that his index finger was held up, and shook it.

[Anywhere.]

[Does it have to be literal? Like real?]

[What do you mean?]

[There are other ways I can take you away from here.] His signing had slowed and was indecent in its slithering movements and how his gaze had intensified.

Numbers involuntarily allowed his eyes to drop to Wrench's belt.

[Not that, not just yet.]

[What?] Numbers was caught off-guard and felt exposed; he wished he had never admitted this fantasy of his to his partner. He turned the ignition on, preparing to drive off when Wrench's insistent hand returned to his forearm, demanding his attention. 

[Please.] He used his sign name. [I want to do it but we have to build up to it. I don't want to do it wrong, and end up hurting you, or fuck it up so that you don't enjoy it.] Wrench took his left hand and brushed his fingertips slowly over the back of his right hand. [We have to take it in gradual steps. And that will be fun too.] 

[When did you become the sensible one?]

[I've always been the sensible one.]

-

When they returned, Wesley casually shrugged off his jacket, hanging it across the back of the first chair he came across. He raised his palm to his cheek before bringing the fingertips of both his hands together.

[Bedroom.]

Numbers acquiesced, his lower abdomen a strange knot of mixed sensations. Wesley followed him, closing the door behind him. He was struck again by how tall his partner was, his limbs long and well-defined. His eyes were so changeable, shifting from one colour to another, an indefinite mix, a river in a forest at autumn, reflecting the changing trees and leaves and sky around and above it. There was something so clear about him, not clean, not pure, clear – unlike his own muddied shades and hues. His fingers plucked uncertainly at his shirt. Another him, another Wesley were both on the road now, on the way to South America, never to return to the empty trap of this place. 

Wesley approached him, and took his hands in his own, lowering then, and began to undress him, being far more careful with his clothes than he had been with his own. Numbers wanted him to just be done with it and begin but Wesley was maddening in his pace, sliding his hands down his back, palping the muscles between his fingers, ghosting his lips and teeth over his collarbone, touching his tattoos as if he hadn't touched them countless thousands of times before. 

[Lie down. On your back.]

Numbers complied, the perspective of looking up at his partner from this reclining position having a further strange effect on him. Wesley had stripped as well now and Numbers took in the soft tawny colour of him, so at odds with the landscape they found themselves in. He approached the bed and clambered on top of his partner, straddling him, his long legs holding him down; he could not move. Wesley took his right hand and signed with his free hand.

[To stop, you hit me here.] 

He hit his own thigh, demonstrating. 

[Yes?]

Numbers signed [yes], he had understood. Reassured, Wesley felt he could continue. He circled his fingers around his mouth.

[I'll cover your mouth with my hand.]

Numbers took his balled fist and made a knocking gesture with it twice. [Yes.] 

Then Wes's large hand was over his mouth and he scrambled for what he felt; he jerked, his leg kicking involuntarily, and he sought to take in breathes through his mouth, panicked that he couldn't, then realising he could with his nose. Wes's free hand was repeatedly signing. 

[Stay with me. Look at me.] 

He grasped for purchase on the sheets, determined to not resort to using his safe gesture. Keeping his eyes locked on Wesley's, he found his limbs relaxing, and he accustomed himself to the restriction and feeling of having his mouth covered. He relaxed further as his partner's signing slowed down, becoming less urgent. Then the message changed. 

[Oh, that's good. Good.] He used the truncated form of the gesture as he only had one hand free and so it was hard to distinguish it from the sign for [thank you], which struck Grady as odd, as he felt he should be the one to thank Wes. But perhaps Wes did want to thank him for this, for what they were doing together and this thought was a lot so he returned to focusing instead on the relaxation that had been suffusing his limbs. He sank further into the mattress, embracing the sensation of Wes's weight pressing on him, restricting him, and he consciously stopped breathing through his nose and he felt Wes pressing his hand harder against his mouth. He waited, wondering what it would feel like; he held his breath, and watched his partner's face which although everything else around him seemed to be getting further away did not change, and remained. He held his breath, beginning to experience the edges of need to release and take in more air, and Wes once again pressed harder against him, pressing his hand harder against him, pressing his crotch harder against his and he wanted to moan; he felt unreal, drifting, no time existed, a certain sense of being suspended; it fitted – if he could not get away physically, then being suspended, between breaths, between life and death was another way to stave off the hooks that had been sunk deep into them by others. 

Involuntarily, he breathed through his nose, his body overriding his mind. He inhaled sharply, and watched as Wesley exhaled and realised his partner had been holding his breath at the same time as him, in order to feel where he was, how much he needed to breathe, keeping him safe. 

[How are you?] 

Grady felt light-headed, his cock ached, and he wanted to recapture the strange, intoxicating in-between state he had just experienced.

[More.] He signed.

[Are you sure?] 

[Yes, goddammit.] He bucked against his partner. 

Wesley smiled then and he experienced something which came over him irregularly when with his partner, the sense that with him he was maddeningly close to making sense of something, of the broken, disparate threads of his life somehow being connected, but never quite reaching it and he did not know who was to blame for this failure, or whether anyone could be blamed for it. 

This time Wesley covered his mouth and his nose, pressing hard against him, and Grady fell back into the space he found he craved, as if he had allowed himself to fall under ice, letting his body sink deeper into the cold water, not concerned about coming back up; he had expected it to be terrifying, constricting, and it was the opposite; but then so much in his world was the opposite of what it was supposed to be. Wesley removed his hands without warning, and Grady spluttered and cursed, signing to get right back to where he had been. 

[Take a break, just for a moment.] Wesley's chest rose and fell rapidly, as he sucked in air. 

They repeated this a few more times and when Grady had taken his fill of this and couldn't wait anymore, he struggled to move out from under his partner, shoving him onto his back; Wesley complied, and simply watched as Grady slid down his body, and taking his stiff cock into his mouth. Wesley grasped his hair, his hand pushing his face down more onto his cock, and Grady gratefully struggled with his length, his eyes tearing up, spit on his chin, finding it difficult to breathe again, and welcoming the return of this sensation. 

After they had both come, they lay on the sheets, Wesley with his arm thrown across his partner, still and content; Grady began to feel a coldness steal over him that had little to do with the cooling temperature on his naked limbs. He imagined how he had looked, lying under his partner, his breathing cut off, and how he had taken it and wanted more. His stomach dipped, turning queasy at the edges. He sat up, and Wesley raised his head, enquiring. 

[I need a shower.] Even the sensation of cum drying on his skin, the wetness around his now soft cock, the aftertaste and smell of Wesley in his mouth were all contributing to this sense of disgust. 

Wesley shot out an arm to hold him there and Numbers angrily shook him off. Wesley jumped up then, seeing something was going wrong and very quickly.

[What happened? Where did you go?]

[Can't believe I made you do this.]

[You didn't make me. I wanted to.]

[How could you?] Grady rubbed his hands over his face. 

[What happened?] He held his hands out, palms up, before turning them over, and pointing downwards with his index fingers. 

[I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have made you part of it.]

[Why?] Wesley looked bewildered now and Numbers experienced an irrational anger at this; why did he have to feel so wrong and when Wesley genuinely couldn't see anything weird in what they had just done? 

[Everything is backwards. I wouldn't want something like that except for how this world has made me.] 

He witnessed Wesley's face contorting in a genuine expression of upset. [You don't think what we just did was beautiful?]

[Oh fuck off, how could it be?] 

[But I thought it was beautiful.] He held his hand, palm in, to his face, slowly fanning his fingers downwards. [Watching your face, feeling how your body moved.]

[No, it's just another expression of what I am.]

[And what's that?] Wesley challenged him.

Grady made his hands into claws and held them apart from one another, twisting them in opposite directions.

[You're not.]

[Great argument and proof you have there.]

[OK, so let's say, in another life, if you wanted to do this with me still, would you still say it was wrong?]

[I wouldn't need to do it in that other life.]

[You can't know that.]

No, he couldn't and not being able to know something gnawed at him. He thought about this other imagined self more than he wanted to admit. One who didn't come undone engaging in such acts. He wished he could tell Wesley but it was too cruel – how could he sign to his partner that he secretly feared that if this was the form their lovemaking took, then what did that say about their love? Because he did love him, but what if that love itself was tainted by who he was? And if Wesley loved him, deformed and warped as he was, then what did that say about Wesley? His world shrank once again, barely bigger than the window in their bedroom, looking into the darkness of the small town around them. What if it really was just his problem? What if what they were doing was not wrong at all and it was only his own fault for putting this interpretation on something that was not bad?  
He felt a blanket being placed over his shoulders which he wanted to shrug off but then his partner's warm hands pulled him against his chest, steadying him. They had enacted this scene, in one form or another, brought about by different causes, too many times over the years, and Wesley had learned there was nothing he could say to help Grady, and so he would hold him instead. Grady wanted to shove him away but he could not do that, for once he would not have an ugly reaction to something good and so, tiredly, he let his head fall against Wesley, and they looked out the small window together.


	4. Chapter 4

In the home, there had been one television. It was basic, and had some channels; it was the focus of the shared living area, and it was also a resource owned and controlled by a certain group of older kids, which did not include Grady and Wes. This group did, however, comprise of several kids who disliked them and beat them up regularly. They gathered around this television, their congregation spot, in the evenings. This was their area and when they sat there, no-one else could, and they certainly could not have any say in what programmes or channel were chosen. Often they hardly paid attention to the small television, they would talk loudly over it, competing with it almost. But they felt it was theirs, and so they had to have it on at this time. 

If Grady ever wanted to look at the television, he would wait until the early morning; there was no-one else about at this time. The older kids were still sleeping, feeling the effects of their secret late-night excursions into the world outside of the home. He would be able to sit on the couch without fear of being attacked. However, the time of day impacted on what he could watch. After he got bored of the same reruns of various talk shows, he switched to another station, one which usually showed classic films. Initially, he did not particularly enjoy them or like them, but swiftly this changed, as he found the world of these old movies much more attractive than the one he currently found himself in. The men and women were equally glamourous, as were the spies and gangsters. He began to have fantasies about such a life; how it would be to move from place to place, unable to stay a long time, carrying out different assignments, the excitement of the danger, the foreign cities and exotic worlds he would encounter.

After some weeks, Wes began to join him in these early morning viewings. More often than not there would be no subtitles available and Grady would tell him what was being said. On one occasion, he had been signing the lines spoken by Humphrey Bogart, and Wes had abruptly halted him, his left palm up flat, bringing the edge of his right hand down against it in sharp, repeated movements. Grady held both his hands palm up.

[You're not doing it right.]

[Yes I am, I didn't make any mistakes.]

[No, I don't mean like that. I mean, you aren't doing their accents.]

[Their accents?] He tapped his index finger to his throat.

[No, not as in American or English. As in how they talk. What you're doing looks like your accent when you sign. They can't all have the same accent as you.]

[Let me get this straight. You want me to sign their 'accents', as in the manner they speak, their expressions.]

[Yes.] Wes signed, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. [Look at how I sign.] 

His movements were strong, lithe, his arms making large, sweeping angles. Grady had noticed recently how his friend no longer looked like a child; he had shot up in height and his body was changing shape too, becoming harder, more defined. Grady turned back to the screen to distract himself from the unsettled reactions this elicited in him. He focused on Bogart, and tried again, seeking to convey the tempo with which he speak, if he was mumbling, or what his words indicated about his relationship to the person he was talking to. Wes's face lit up in unadulterated delight and from then on, that was how Grady would translate the films for him.

They both had favourites. Grady though, did not wish for anyone to know that his favourite was Montgomery Clift. He kept it a secret and sought not to betray his pleasure when a film of his was playing and he came on the screen. He loved his dark features, how his black hair was combed back, styled perfectly; he loved his suits and shirts, how they hung on him perfectly. 

[Why do you like him so much?] Wes asked him. 

[I don't.] Grady immediately turned off the television, feeling as if he had been caught out. 

[Is it because he's good-looking?] Wes took his right hand and circled it in front of his lips, before spreading his fingers and repeating the gesture in front of his entire face.

Grady made no response. 

[Well, he is.] Wes shrugged. 

[I like his clothes. His style.] 

He watched Wes carefully, wondering when he'd laugh. He didn't. Ridiculous to have such notions about clothes like that, look where they lived. Nothing was really theirs and they hardly ever got anything new. 

Wes took the remote control from his hands, and turned on the tv again. He examined Monty Clift carefully and then looked back to Grady. 

[I can see why.]

The next evening, Wes had beckoned him outside, hiding behind one of the buildings. [I got you something.]

By [got] he meant [stolen], as neither of them had money. It was a black suit jacket, swiped from one of the two outlets available near them. The item bore little resemblance to the pieces Grady admired and longed for, but it was a suit jacket, it was black, it felt good to touch, and Wes had got it for him. It didn't quite fit and he had nothing else to wear with it to complete the look, yet it still felt somehow transformative when he put it on. 

As he moved into his teenage years and beyond, he began to fixate on recreating a similar image. Wes had once or twice poked gentle fun at him for how seriously he took this. Then he quickly realised that it went deeper than just teenage vanity, and he stopped. Wes had a very different relationship to clothes to Grady. He enjoyed the tactile aspect of them, their colour, but without the context of who was wearing them and how it actually looked in combination with other clothes. Often, he seemed more at home without clothes, enjoying his nude body in a manner Grady was almost taken aback by. Seeing Wes so at ease in baring his own body was undeniably attractive; however, it once again led to a knee-jerk defensiveness in reaction to it, as if it indicated that Wes was stronger than he was somehow and this was the evidence of it. 

Once they began to work, Grady quickly sunk most of his pay into building up this illusion; and once he had achieved this, he set about refining it and cementing it. He bought several items repeatedly, so he appeared unchanging, fixed, with little variation. The items he possessed and wore were few in range, he focused on quality and feared not having enough of a piece of clothing to be able to continue to rotate and then replace them as they began to show wear and tear. He created this image of himself and then found he had become it somewhere along the way, he had been frozen into it. In recent times he had begun to wonder who he would be without these items. 

This was part of what drove him to get tattoos. To have this secret knowledge of how his body had been changed and created by him, and that no one would know from the outside. He had not found it easy initially, to feel the needle buzzing into his skin and he welcomed the experience of watching his body emerge from chosen pain. Furthermore, he had had to overcome his natural antipathy to having a stranger this close to his body and potentially with the ability to injure him. He knew this was an irrational thought but he could never free himself of it and he would remain monosyllabic throughout his tattooing sessions, scarcely even acknowledging the artist working on him. He was marked, he chose to be marked in such a way and to conceal it, to project an image at odds with what was underneath, but also to bring this two contradictory aspects together, to further create an image at odds with what he felt inside. Ugliness. Disappointment. Self-disgust. He had learned to tamp down these sensations to at least bare embers, but he had never been able to fully extinguish them. He would not have lasted as long as he had in this career if he did not possess such self-control. 

Grady was equally unnerved by Wesley's gaze as he was drawn to it. He did not want to be seen. Not like this. If Wesley was able to see him, really see him, then it meant others could to, he wasn't invulnerable. And so that was tainted too, then, and he hated how he took this from his partner, and from himself, too.  
Grady didn't want to be seen but he knew how much pleasure Wesley took in looking at him, his form, whether clothed or naked. He liked to watch; he liked to watch himself. He had asked Grady before if he could masturbate and let him watch and he had never been able to grant him this desire. 

Because it comes down to this: the two of them, in their apartment, together. They know each other, or rather Wesley knew himself fully and knew his partner even more so somehow. How could he not experience that as dizzyingly frightening, did he not worry knowing someone else that deeply would lead to the disintegration of his own self?  
Grady breathing was hard, and Wesley stayed with him, his hands on his face, holding him close in spite of his rigid resistance. Grady wished their lives could have been different, so that he wouldn't be like this, so that he wouldn't experience everything as the opposite of what it should be and that Wesley wouldn't have to learn to read these things in this way too. He had a constant heavy fear that he had brought Wesley down simply by being with him, but Grady cannot do without him, that is the simple fact of the situation. Then he can at least give Wesley this, he can overcome his own warped instincts and allow his lover to slowly and deliberately remove each item of clothing from his body. Wesley, still fully dressed, pulled back from him and empathetically signed to his partner, finishing his short sentence with two hard slaps to his chest. 

[You are mine.] 

He repeated this, twice, three times, and Grady wished he could look away from the earnestness, the sincerity in his partner; instead he managed to look back, following his signs, repeating them in his mind, making them almost into a chant. Wesley then brought his hands to his buckle and slowly undid his belt, his long fingers rubbing along the edges of the buckle, teasing the leather out, before he slid it in one sharp move from his jeans. He took an end in each hand and pulled the belt taut, wrapping the ends around his knuckles to create more tension. He brought it to Grady's neck, raising his hands over his head, lowering them once more; the first touch of the leather against his skin shocked him, and Wesley paused in his movements, fixing his gaze on his partner's eyes, waiting for a sign to continue or stop. Grady took his right hand, made it into a fist and nodded it up and down, yes, yes; he wondered what kind of accent his signs had right now, how much they betrayed. 

Carefully, Wesley fitted the leather strap back into its buckle, tightening it experimentally. Grady swallowed, feeling his Adam's apple bobbing against the restraint. He could breathe, certainly, but not quite freely, not quite with ease, he could not take in deep breathes. Wesley kept one hand on the leather strap falling from his neck, almost as if it were a leash he held him on, and Grady gasped at the thought, half-choking for a moment. Then Wesley yanked on the strap, and he stumbled, falling into his arms, and he kissed him, long, liquidly, not relinquishing his grip on the belt. Grady struggled again to breathe, the mixture of the tight material at his throat, his pounding heart, and the attacking kiss Wesley was currently subjecting him to all combined to overwhelm his senses. Normally he would fight such a kiss, any kisses. He found them so difficult to accept. Even when he saw the resigned hurt in his partner's eyes he still couldn't shake the sensation of wanting to crawl away from his own self when he was kissed. It wasn't Wesley's fault, and if he could short circuit his brain he would be able to enjoy them as they should be. It wasn't internalised prejudice of some kind, rather he simply couldn't accept that someone like him got to have kisses bestowed on him; kisses, romantic and soft, long and intimate, cuddling, embracing as they kissed, Wesley running his fingers through his hair, tracing over his face. Gestures like this were for figures on TV and movie screens, not for him, and it was as if he feared he was being mocked by the world for what longings he secretly nursed. Wesley experienced no such inhibitions and would have demonstrated his affection for his partner in innumerable touches and glances, public and private, with scant regard for the consequences, only if he thought Grady would respond, respond enthusiastically, believe in him and his touches. But now he could not get away from him, now he was his, and Grady saw how this was the sentiment burning in his lover currently, and he angled upwards, smashing his mouth harder against him. Wesley met his frenzied moves easily, controlling him, bringing the kiss back down to something slower but nonetheless intense for it. He did not often get to have Grady in such a mood, almost pliant, and each time he sought to reassert his control over the kiss, Wesley simply pulled on the leather, bringing him back into place, putting pressure on his neck again. Then suddenly, he was behind Grady, his free arm thrown across him, preventing him from moving out of his grasp, his other hand still insistently holding to the leather strap. Wesley briefly moved his hand, extending his first two fingers, jabbing at the mirror, meaning for Grady to see it in the reflection.

[Look. Look.]

Wesley repeated it, and so Grady looked, and he saw himself, his face flushed pink, his hair in complete disarray. He could not take his eyes from the leather belt around his neck, the buckle in the centre, Wesley's grip on the leather, Wesley, he could not stop looking at the blatant lust in his eyes, and he watched their reflections as he kissed and sucked at his neck, felt his partner's hard cock pressed against his back. His mind made fuzzy by the myriad of sensations he was currently experiencing tried to decipher the signs Wesley was making, reading them reflected in the mirror, feeling his hand moving through the air beside his face as he made them. 

[What do you see? What do you feel when you see it?]

Grady, feeling almost drugged, under Wesley's gaze and his grip found himself quickly signing, instinctively responding, brought his hand up to the side of his mouth before taking his first two fingers, hooking them and then twisting them downwards. This elicited a positively filthy smile from Wesley who agreed enthusiastically with his partner. 

[If only it could always be like this.] Grady's hands ran away with him, experiencing a strange doubling, feeling at a distance from himself by only have to witness how his reflection made these signs, yet also feeling closer to himself and to Wesley than he had in a long time. 

[Why can't it be?] His signs were a caress now, and he used the hand also gripping the leather to communicate them. [Why can't it be?]

Grady knew the answer – because of who he was and there was only ever such brief moments where Wesley broke through to him and he himself managed to somehow shatter the layers and layers of hardness he had created around himself. But for now, they had such a moment and so Wesley led him to the bed, disrobing as he went. Then Grady was on his front, Wesley's finger teasingly probing his hole, his thighs gripping his sides, his weight holding him down, his other hand holding to the leather, having tightened it a notch, making it harder and harder for him to catch a full, deep breath, and he felt himself becoming higher and higher, his cock weeping every time Wesley increased the pressure on the belt. Grady grabbed onto the moment, this evening, these images as hard as he could, shoving them into his heart, determined that he would be able to pull them out at will and relive them, and he hoped fervently that he would be able to think of this evening, what Wesley had given him, at the moment of his death.


End file.
